


Too much noise

by KeiserFranz



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeiserFranz/pseuds/KeiserFranz
Summary: George and Paul share a tender moment in the middle of the frenzy called fame.
Relationships: George Harrison & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney (implied)
Kudos: 43





	Too much noise

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently coughing like it's the 1800s and, therefore, have to linger in my bed a lot. My mum suggested I utilise the time for studying, but I prefer watching Hercule Poirot and spamming my social media. 🙈🙊🙉 (yeah, I also explore the depths of emojis, in the most intellectual way, rest assured) 
> 
> I do feel a little bad about the amount of fics I'm producing but I read a sentence about not being afraid to take up space on the internet, so...
> 
> anyway, if you feel fancy, you can visit my [tumblr](https://dusted-0negin.tumblr.com/)

The relief George experiences after safely getting into his room can't be described. Unfortunately, it doesn't ease the feeling of being touched -- if he shuts his eyes, the sensation of hands grabbing at his clothes and body re-appears. The screaming, perfectly audible through closed windows, doesn't help either. George likes the masses of fans at the concert, it reminds him they really made it, performing for folks in big America, but outside of concert venues, the attention rattles him -- not from the excitement but from fear. It's more and more obvious then -- they lost their private lives.

And he can't even open the bloody window. 

Ringo's head peeks into George's room, buzzing with excitement as he informs him about them going to some hoppity toppity place, inviting him, too. George's refusal is followed by John repeating Ringo's actions in a much louder and sloppier suit. He doesn't hesitate to step over the threshold, parading in the middle of George's room as he pokes fun at him. It takes a great effort to communicate that no, George is not going anywhere and no, he doesn't care if John calls him a baby. It proves to be physically demanding, too, for George has to walk the still cackling man to the door otherwise he would linger there for the rest of eternity. 

Then he finally gets to enjoy the silence, or the illusion of silence, strumming mindlessly the guitar and sorting his thoughts. A hesitant knock on the door welcomes him back to reality. George winces, waiting for the intruder to sod off, unsuccessfully, as another knock follows, this time a little more insistent. 

"It's Paul, isn't it," George brain supplies and he opens the door, face displaying his annoyance, wicked words of confrontation balancing on the tip of his tongue. He. Is. Not. Going. Anywhere.

Indeed, standing there is the man in question, a hand frozen in the air, prepared to collide with wood again. It is Paul but, oddly, it is not the Paul George had expected to square up to. He doesn't see a dashing young gentleman in sharp night attire, with a charming smile or neatly combed hair. The figure has hunched shoulders and doesn't occupy the space with the usual strength. 

"Oh," Paul whispers without any emotion, already turning on his heel to retreat. "I thought-nevermind, sorry, just-sorry." His movements are unusually jerky as if he has to remind himself of the purpose of human limbs.

Something stirring in George's heart causes the younger man to grip Paul's arm to stop him, then tug him into the room. It's the same instinct that told him one of Paul's friends was a sleazy wanker, would do no good for him, as spending time alone won't now.

If his actions surprise Paul, his face doesn't betray him, in fact, Paul's features resemble a wax figurine now, and George can see the roots of the fake 'cute Beatle' front Paul is forced to maintain. It's the same routine for George, with the quiet Beatle label. But, contrary to his friend, George can recognise where his own personality starts. 

"Tea?" He interrupts the silence. A nod causes him to remember Paul likes to entertain himself, gets easily lost when left alone with the wrong thoughts. Just the fact that he decided to stay in the hotel instead of going out to charm pants off every breathing creature is enough to alarm George, they haven't had a row with John, everybody would know, which means Paul either stumbled upon a nasty article or decided to inspect a hidden wound.

The joy of cracking the shell doesn't last long, though. George received a tiny nod and...nothing more. Paul lingers in the middle of the room, a cup of tea placed in one hand. It almost seems like George has summoned an ancient creature and waits for it to remember all its 37282 lives. A whimsical idea perhaps. Not so much when he realises he hasn't seen Paul's eyes yet.

A brief moment of panic is cut off by a particularly high shriek. 

"Do they never sleep?" Paul directs at nobody, risking a curt glance at the window. An odd grimace, something between anger and sadness, contorts his face. Like a person who got lost but can't figure the road back because they are disappointed in themselves for getting lost in the first place. 

"Do we ever sleep?" George retorts, suddenly noticing how tired he is even with the luxury of being young and healthy. They travel, travel, travel, see nothing but hotels' lobbies lit by photographers' flashes, then, allons allons, make a show, before they travel some more. George can't believe he thinks that, but the idea of spending a weekend in murky Liverpool sounds like heaven. 

It doesn't earn him a reply, though, and that's an improvement, Paul scoots closer and joins him on the bed. A delicate sip of the cooling drink is taken. George waits.

"George?" 

He expects it, doesn't let it know, doesn't even turn his head to face Paul, just hums.

"Do you-do you ever hate it?" 

There is no need for clarification, **it** representing everything -- endless shows, constant shuffling, annoying reporters, touchy people...it also represents freedom, dreams, fun with friends instead of tackling the jading 8 to 5 shift, art, fame, money. The world they live in. 

"I do, yeah." George allows, carefully choosing the following words. "But I do love it, too, can't think of anything I'd rather do, no matter how many annoying 50-something-year-old men mock my hair."

They chuckle simultaneously, but it's interlocked with a certain bitterness because of its reality. People touch them, mock them, expect them to leap up like trained monkeys, and they aren't corrupted enough to wave it off, just because the very same people pay them. Shaking off the disgusting feeling, George fetches two ciggies, lits them up and offers the other to Paul.

"I sometimes wish I were a teacher, you know? Just a nagging routine, maybe dusting my guitar once in a blue moon, complaining about bills."

Blowing the smoke to the ceiling, George laughs, coughs, laughs again. "You would go bonkers, mate. Either trying to orchestrate the whole school or resisting knocking up each and every one of your students." To smooth the edge of the jab, he adds in a sincere voice: "You belong on the stage. And John wouldn't make it without you, the bastard would probably let some 80-year-old to pamper him and his herd of cats...But he would damage himself sooner or later." 

Paul looks at him for the first time, cheeks coloured at the mention of John. George wonders whether he knows he knows, decides not to prey, Paul will tell him, eventually. 

"You belong on the stage, too," Paul mumbles, eyes urgent with emotions he is shy to name. "Right next to me, you know, we wouldn't be happy without you, either."

A verbal answer stuck in his throat, George bumps into Paul's shoulder tenderly, pretending he has to focus on sucking nicotine to his lugs. 

Another moment of silence arises. This time more comfortable, wrapping them like a warm blanket and isolating any other sounds. 

"You know..." George breaths out, not sure whether it will lead him to hell, "I do get what you are thinking. I felt the same in Hamburg. It was marvellous and horrendous at the same time. The freedom and, ehm, sex and everything, but then there existed a part of me wanting to wake up every morning to go to school, to do homework, to listen to my siblings bickering about bullshit and so on. And even now I have no idea whether I liked it there. I mean-it's clear it helped us to get here, so when I look at it from a distance, it makes sense. But when I inspect it, like, you know, looking at individual days, I just don't like it."

"'s complicated." Paul half comments, half signs. 

"Yeah."

"I hate it." 

There is a snarky remark threatening to escape, something along the line of 'we know Paul, you hate everything that you haven't organised', but George swallows it, knowing that the humorous aspect doesn't minimize its capability of damage. Instead, he decides to offer Paul another perspective.

"You like John, though, don't you? He's a walking complexity. Harsh around corners, soft at the core... And when he does some dumb shit you just think of his better traits, right? To refrain from punching him in the face. So, maybe try to think about the better aspects when you feel low. O-or come to me." The last sentence is verbalised hesitantly, but George realises it's true, they haven't talked for ages, just two of them, and he misses it.

"Or come to me even when you don't feel like crap, not sure how much wisdom I have left." He adds when there is no reply, afraid he crossed some invisible line, but also bothered that he thinks there is a line when it comes to feelings.

"I will," Paul smiles, not that PR kind of grin that doesn't reach his eyes but a genuine simper with a hint of teeth and wrinkles around eyes.

They sit there, side by side, both engulfed by their own thoughts. It could last for a couple of minutes or hours, but when George jerks into consciousness, Paul is sprawled across his bed, face buried into George's pillow, dead to the outer world. Normally, George would probably treat himself another fag or a glass of scotch, but the scene alerts him to his own sleep deprivation, and he slides next to his friend, covering them with sheets. 

It brings back fond memories of years long gone. Times before John, the band, Hamburg, recordings, frantic girls and professional photoshoots. For a moment, they are back in George's cramped room, sharing a bed with feet shoved into their faces. He decides he likes the present better, a barrier they considered essential in their teens is gone. Paul moves closer even after he stirs awake, silently giving George time to back off. He doesn't, and they hug each other before drifting off. 

It's complicated in the most trivial way.


End file.
